


we're two easy targets

by thatsparrow



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i swear I meant for this to be happier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 12:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10360608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: "Juno—good god—yourface!""Relax, Nureyev, it's just a little blood. Nothing a hot shower couldn't fix."





	

**Author's Note:**

> set between the end of "juno steel and the train from nowhere (part 2)" and the beginning of "peter nureyev and the angel of brahma (part 1)"
> 
> title from "on the bus mall" by the decemberists

"Juno—good god—your _face_!"

"Relax, Nureyev, it's just a little blood. Nothing a hot shower couldn't fix."

But Juno can taste the lie on his tongue better than the tang of iron swishing between his teeth. Miasma's left his skin unmarked—not done playing games with her pet mind reader just yet—but there's a throb in his brain like the heartbeat of some ancient leviathan, a relentless pulse beating through his skull like his whole damn _head_ threatening to split in two. And he's tired — god, he's just so _tired_. The kind of weariness buried into his muscles and tattooed onto his bones that the spray of a shower couldn't begin to wash away.

"Your poker face leaves something to be desired, Detective." Nureyev's jaw sets fractionally, too distracted with whatever he sees on Juno's face to pay attention to his own tells. "I assure you, there's no need to play the hero with me."

Juno smiles at that—even as the muscles around his mouth argue at the effort—because how could he _not_?

"Been called a lot of things, and most of them filthier than the bathroom tile of an Oldtown bar. Can't say 'hero' ever made that list."

"And while I'm sure it must be a charming roster, if you don't sit down soon, I worry that 'dead' is the only label that will apply."

For a moment, Juno's tempted to argue—because he's _fine_ , dammit, and will Nureyev quit _looking at him_ _like that_ —but he's barely even thought about taking a step forward when he feels the muscles in his legs threaten to give out, and it's all he can do to make it to the bedroll on the floor with some semblance of purpose rather than an undignified collapse.

"Careful, Detective," Nureyev says. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"Think Miasma's got that part covered, actually."

"Yes, well — I'm sure we can both agree she doesn't need any help."

Head lowered and forearms propped up on his knees, Nureyev is little more than a silhouette in Juno's periphery as he takes a seat next to him on the bedroll, the cot depressing slightly under the added weight.

Solving puzzles comes as easy to Juno as breathing, but for the life of him—however little of it remains—he _cannot_ figure out how Peter still carries the scent of that damn cologne.  

"Juno, are you alright?"

"Pretty sure I've been worse."

But even with the resume of scars on his skin, he's not sure that's true. Because it's hours at best before Miasma has him back in that fucking chair, stretching his mind until the seams threaten to unravel. Because he can't shake the image of her goons tracing the outline of Nureyev's limbs with a knife blade, waiting on her word to let that shiny silver edge dig in a little deeper. Because he knows what bruises look like on the shape of Nureyev's cheekbones, and he knows what Nureyev sounds like when pain bursts out of him like someone's ripped the sound straight from his throat, and he's afraid he'll forget what it looks like to see a grin on Peter's half-moon mouth, worn like a secret just for him.

Because they're both running _so goddamn low_ on time _,_ and all Juno wants to do is learn what Nureyev's breathing would sound like if he pressed his lips against the waterways of veins in Peter's wrist. If it would stutter. If it would skip.

Absent, Juno rubs at the corner of his eye—as if that gesture could will away the thought of his breath against Nureyev's skin—forgetting the blood on his face until he feels some of it scrape away under his fingertip. There's nothing on the walls of the holding cell but those eerie Martian drawings pulled from the storyboard of a childhood nightmare, but Juno knows that the lack of a mirror is likely a blessing right now. After all, he's collected more bar fights than takeout receipts and would have a crosshatch pattern of scars across his knuckles if he was worth a damn with his fists. As well as he knows the feel of a laser pistol in his palm, he knows the crushing kiss of a kick to the ribs, and he's cleaned up under the fluorescent lighting of enough back room bathrooms to guess that he probably looks like hell with this much blood dried into the creases of his skin.

Besides, it's enough to see the look Nureyev is giving him—more concern than Juno wants and maybe a little fear in the slight flex of those slender fingers—to be sure that he can't be a pretty sight.

"We should get you cleaned up, Juno," Nureyev says at last, and Juno's grateful for the break in the silence, if only because he doesn't really know what to do with the way Nureyev's watching him.

"A charitable offer, but I think I'm good."

"I'll believe _that_ when you can say it without wincing."

The holding cell doesn't offer much in the way of comfort—really just the cots on the floor and the bulky shape of a Martian coffin—but there is at least a basin of water sitting on the floor, nearly empty by now but serviceable for Nureyev's efforts. He eases himself to his feet, fingers brushing briefly against Juno's shoulder as he rises. And then he's got the pitcher in his hands and he's lowering himself to his knees at Juno's side and he's searching through his pockets to find something he can use to wash Juno clean.

As if there was even enough water on Mars.

"You don't have to," Juno says when Nureyev salvages a handful of crumpled napkins from a coat pocket. "I can take care of myself just fine."

"Oh, detective," Nureyev says, some of the hard angles in his face softening like they've been sanded away, giving Juno a look that's a little _too_ knowing. "Somehow, I'm not entirely sure that's true."

Ignoring Juno's slight eye roll—an insincere one, if he's being honest, because how the hell else is he supposed to respond to that tone in Nureyev's words?—he soaks one of the napkins in the basin and wrings the excess water from the creases, the paper folded between his fingers as he lifts his head towards Juno.

"Do I need to ask you to sit still or are you going to behave?" Nureyev asks, his voice low and fingers light under Juno's chin, applying just enough pressure to tilt Juno's face towards what little light the room offers.

"Guess that depends, doc," Juno says, hoping the words will distract him from the feeling of Nureyev's thumb resting near his bottom lip. "Do I get a gold star if I play by the rules?"

"My dear detective—" and Juno _knows_ he doesn't imagine the way Nureyev's eyes flick down briefly to his mouth, "—if you were hoping for an incentive, all you had to do is ask."

Isn't _that_ the loaded statement.

But Juno lets the moment pass—pretends it isn't uncertainty but practicality that keeps him from tracing a line down Nureyev's neck with his teeth—and soon the room is silent but for the soft scrape of a damp napkin across Juno's skin.

And if he thought a lack of conversation might make this moment a little easier to handle—fuck, a little less _intimate_ —god, was he _wrong_.

Because without words to keep his mind busy, to fill up the inches between the sculpture of Nureyev's shoulders and the slump of his own chest, he has nothing left to focus on but the details of the situation — the feel of Nureyev's fingertips on his jaw, the quiet hum of Nureyev's breathing, the distance measured in inches and whispers he'd have to cross to bring Nureyev's mouth down to his.

Listen, he's a detective. It's his job to notice things.

Like the obvious — the uneven mattress beneath him and the rough wall of the tomb butting up against his shoulder blades. The temperature of the water that's a little too lukewarm and the texture of the napkin that's a little too rough for him to forget the circumstances of the situation. The taste of copper lingering on his teeth and the smell of the chamber, dusty and ancient and undisturbed. And Juno tries to ground himself in those simple sensory facts — to calm the double-time beat of his heart by anchoring himself in the uncomplicated.

But that's like trying to focus on a breeze in the face of a hurricane. It's not his fault his attention keeps coming back to Nureyev.

Nureyev's hands, feather-light against his skin as he works the cloth in a path from the corners of Juno's eyes down the tracks of his cheeks. Nureyev's eyes, bright and unflinching behind the scratched lenses of his glasses, searching Juno's face like every flicker of his irises is a conscious decision. Nureyev's mouth, curved softly like a sideways parentheses as his thumb skates a back-and-forth along the edge of Juno's jaw.

Eventually he chooses to let his eyes fall shut, because he can't help but feel guilty at the way he's staring — like Nureyev's a statue up on a pedestal and Juno's shoes are tracking mud onto the gallery floors. Trades the sight of Nureyev's hair pushed back off his forehead for the black behind his eyelids. Settles into the sound of Nureyev's quiet exhales in the silence, the rhythm of those delicate hands learning the lines of Juno's face.

He's honestly not sure how long he stays like that—eyes shut, leaning back against the wall, breathing as slow and steady as breezes stirring at the sands of Mars' deserts—but he knows it's not long enough. Because even with Miasma's promise of pain hovering over him like the floating mansions of Hyperion, Juno thinks that he wouldn't mind living out the ages lingering in this moment, losing himself in the feeling of Nureyev's fingertips on his skin.

Though he'd take a laser to his own tongue before he'd ever admit it.

"Are you still with me, Detective?"

It takes a few moments for Juno to come back to himself, to notice the absence of touch on his skin and realize Nureyev must have finished. Dutifully, he opens his eyes, catching sight of the curiosity and amusement in Nureyev's stare and offering a half-smile in return.

"Not exactly like there's anywhere else for me to go."

"Nowhere else to go?" Nureyev asks, mock offense in his tone. "You make it sound as if my company is a last resort. Juno, dear, I'm hurt."

"Guess the company's not so bad," Juno concedes, determinedly unaffected at the way Nureyev's eyes brighten. "But the setting does leave a little something to be desired. Not saying it's worse than being passed out in an Oldtown gutter, but it sure as hell ain't _better_."

"My sincerest apologies." And Juno might have been mostly kidding with that crack about Oldtown, but that edge of melancholy in Nureyev's words is no joke. "Truly, Juno — I am. If I'd known how this would turn out, I never would have asked for your help with the Utgard Express." Nureyev's eyes drop, hands shifting in his lap. "It was never my intention for you to come to harm. I do hope you know that."

Juno hesitates for a moment, feeling like fear has a rigor mortis grip on his muscles until he hits a point of 'fuck it' and stretches out a hand, interlacing his own scarred fingers with Peter's trembling ones. Tells himself it's because Nureyev looks like he so desperately needs some kind of comfort, and not because he misses the feel of Peter's touch.

"You know," Juno begins, his thumb following the creases in Nureyev's palm, eyes focused carefully on the places where their hands meet, "for somebody who prides himself on being so damn clever, you sure have a funny way of looking at the world." He can see Nureyev's lifted head in his periphery, but can't quite bring himself to do the same, instead watching the way his callused fingertips feel out the fabric of the hands of a master thief. "With or without you, and your harebrained scheme for a half-assed train heist—"

"Oh, please, that plan was damn near foolproof."

"—Miasma would've been gunning for me either way. She wants whatever Martian tech's sitting somewhere in my head too damn bad. If you hadn't brought me along, I'd still be sitting in this fucking cell — the only difference is that I'd be here on my own." Juno glances up briefly, just long enough to see the curious look Nureyev's giving him before his eyes flick back down to their tangled hands. "I wish like hell you weren't stuck here," he says, a thick coat of shame settling on his tongue, "but a part of me can't help but be a little fucking _happy_ that you are. And I hate myself for being so selfish — for being fucking _thankful_ that you're here. That I don't have to do this alone." Juno gives a humorless smile. "Looks like you're not the one who's got a few unpaid apologies."

He starts to pull his hand free of Peter's—because he can't even stand himself right now, and he can't imagine Nureyev wants anything to do with him—but then he feels that second set of fingers tighten fractionally around his.

"Funny," Nureyev says, a note in his tone that Juno can't quite parse. "You know, I was feeling guilty for thinking about how lucky I was to have had a certain cranky detective with me in the desert. A certain impossible individual, who seems to forget that I'd be dead beneath the sands were it not for him, and who thinks I don't notice the lengths he pushes himself to that I might be safe."

Nureyev's other hand comes up to rest beneath Juno's chin, and he lifts his head obligingly—if somewhat reluctantly—until he's meeting Nureyev's eyes, seeing an expression on Peter's face that convinces Juno not to look away.

"Me being here means that I'm still alive, Juno dearest." Nureyev says, his tongue wetting his lips as he watches Juno carefully. "And if you think I'm going to let you apologize for having saved my life, you're an even bigger fool than I first suspected."

And maybe that's what it comes down to — that they're both allowed to find some measure of solace in this moment. That Juno doesn't owe penance for being human, and he can't pay in prayers for absolution because Nureyev's telling him that there's nothing to forgive. In the stroke of Nureyev's fingers and the assurance of Nureyev's eyes, Juno begins to understand that—this once, at least—there's no burden of blame resting on his shoulders. He doesn't have to carry that weight.

But luck has never been part of Juno's toolkit, and all it takes is hearing Nureyev say, "Juno—" in an unmistakeable tone for the other shoe to drop.

It's not like he doesn't know the words that Nureyev's leaving unsaid — because fucking _of course_ he does. It's no mystery what the price is for this instance of peace. Because outside the door isn't the hum of Hyperion City, or the mile-per-minute beat of Rita's voice, and they aren't sitting pretty in some off-world hotel with room service waiting out in the hall, and—fuck—they aren't even back in Juno's shitty second-floor apartment, listening to the sound of some businessman cursing over a goddamn parking ticket. No — instead, they're fuck only knows how many miles below ground, both of them trying to avoid the thought that Miasma won't need both of them forever—will stop needing Nureyev a whole lot sooner—and that there's really only one way this story plays out.

At least, that's the thought Juno's still trying to ignore. Leave it to Nureyev to dig it up anyway.

"Juno, I—"

"Hey, Nureyev, would you do me a favor and quit saying my name like that?" Juno asks, tone carefully unaffected.

There's a slight crease in Nureyev's brow, a wrinkle running perpendicular behind the bridge of his glasses. "Like what?"

Juno looks at him, steady and level so there's no way Nureyev can miss the sincerity behind his words. "Like you're practicing saying goodbye."

It's not like things slow down, but they do grow still — Juno waiting on Nureyev's response and Nureyev's mind turning over with thoughts that Juno can only guess at from the infinitesimal shift of his mouth. Like he's wondering whether to point out that this is a conversation they should have while time permits, or that the situation won't go away just because they both shut their eyes, or that Nureyev is really only living on borrowed time.

But Juno will never know what he was thinking, because then Nureyev swipes his thumb across the back of Juno's hand and offers Juno a smile and a slight nod of his head.

"Alright, Juno. I won't." He could ignore Juno's request—and maybe he _should_ —but he doesn't. And if there's something childish about putting reality on the back burner, fuck it, because Juno couldn't care less.

"So, detective," Nureyev continues, letting the curve of his mouth widen into a full-blown grin. "Can I take that to mean you'd rather I not say 'goodbye' at all? Would the impossible Juno Steel prefer to spend his days with a master thief at his side?"

Juno's not _positive_ that a flush rises in the back of his neck, but he damn sure wouldn't be surprised if it did.

"Come on Nureyev," he says, awkwardly clearing his throat and shifting his eyes from the unabashed smugness on Nureyev's face. "We both know that wants and preferences don't mean a thing. Like cotton candy in a carnival dumpster — it's not like there's any substance to it."

"Oh, Juno, do be serious." Nureyev chides, tapping his finger against one of Juno's knuckles. "When has a child _ever_ thrown away cotton candy."

"You know what I mean," Juno says, mesmerized by the metronomic beat of Nureyev's fingertip. "It's spun sugar and thin goddamn air. Soon as a light breeze hits, it falls apart."

"You asked me for a favor," Nureyev begins, voice somewhat quiet. "And now I believe it's my turn to do the same — I ask that you indulge me, Juno Steel, as someone who hasn't enjoyed something sweet in a very long time. Tell me, what is it that you want?"

The question of wanting is one that Juno's consciously spent the bulk of his life avoiding, a Pandora's box of disappointment he keeps welded shut and shoved into the outer reaches of his mind's orbit. But it's not like he can really keep himself from knowing what's inside — not like he can stop himself from building up expectations even as he waits for reality to kick him to his knees. And when Nureyev asks, there's no shield in Juno Steel's defenses that can keep away the wanting he's spent so much time trying to disregard.

And there's no ignoring the person who features in so many of those thoughts — the same one sitting across from him and sketching out hieroglyphs on his palm, asking for Juno's trust like he's asking him to walk a tightrope without a net.

Fuck — it's _scary_ to realize how willing he is to do just that. Even with the risk of falling, what's on the other side of the wire feels so goddamn worth it.

But at the end of the day—or the morning, or dusk, or whatever the fuck time it is—those aren't thoughts Juno is capable of voicing. Not now, at least. Not yet. And he knows that Nureyev understands, because he doesn't press the matter, doesn't insist, doesn't do anything more than shift so that his back is to the wall and their shoulders are side by side. Tightens his hold on Juno's hand until their palms are pressed together. And they remain there, trading thoughts back-and-forth in the quiet and breath synced to the same pattern until Juno feels his eyelids start to waver and then droop and then eventually fall shut.

He doesn't know that Nureyev lets him stay like that—Juno's head on his shoulder, fingers interlaced—far past the point when his own muscles have grown stiff, and then numb. Juno would protest if he did, of course—because he sure as hell doesn't need Nureyev making sacrifices for him—but he also looks more at ease while asleep than Peter's ever seen, and he'd have to be a monster to wake him.

So Peter doesn't. And he doesn't think about the pain that the morning might bring. Instead, he watches the rise and fall of his impossible detective's chest, thinks of all the places the stars have to offer and all that he wants to share with Juno Steel.

Juno Steel, who deserves so much more than Hyperion City has to offer. Who believes himself worthy of so much less.

And Peter knows what he wants — the words he would've offered, had Juno asked. Because it doesn't feel like too much, wanting Juno Steel to be happy.

He hopes he lives long enough to see it.

**Author's Note:**

> pretty sure I wasn't supposed to make myself so sad while writing this, but uh, here we are
> 
> ( i'm also not...totally happy with the ending but I need to stop working on this or I'll never study for my finals )
> 
> ( anyway feel free to come [chat with me](http://thatsparrow.tumblr.com/) about my sweet sad child, juno steel )


End file.
